boston
19 March 2007
When I went to bed last night, still drunk, after having eaten a re-heated Anna’s burrito and a sundae, I thought I was going to die. Four hours later, when I woke up at 5am to catch the Limoliner from Boston to NYC so that I could go to work today, I was hallucinating and paranoid. I spent the entire bus ride convinced that the driver, a portly red-faced fellow in his mid-60′s, was going to have a heart attack and everyone on board would be killed in the resulting crash. Also, I pooped on the bus. Not recommended.
This what the weekend in Boston did to me. Because my mind is too scattershot to form anything coherent (you know, ’cause I’m usually very coherent), ten random thoughts on the weekend.
Train ride drinking
As I mentioned Friday, getting drunk on a train is VERY underrated. I got the 7pm Acela on Thursday night and after decompressing for an hour, I headed over the cafe car to get two cans of Bud and fired up the new laptop to watch "Borat."
I’ve always thought that drinking in a moving vehicle is fun, possibly because it’s rare and (most of the time) illegal. But the spirit must have moved me on Thursday night, because I really crushed beers on that train ride. Each time I went up I bought two at once and had eight beers on the ride, having a grand old time, watching "Borat", listening to music, and throwing an amazing one-man party on the train. The car vs. train vs. Limoliner vs. flight debate just got a whole lot more interesting, as I had never before taken such advantage of the $4 cans of Bud in the cafe car. When I have to go to Boston again next week, en route to my buddy Joe’s bachelor party, I know how I’m getting there.
(Next week’s train movie: Tombstone. I just hope that if anyone sits next to me, they won’t be uncomfortable with my constant quoting and the inevitable tear up when Morgan dies and when Virgil says, "Don’t worry, Allie girl – I still got one good arm to hold you with." Gets me every time, probably because I once dated a girl with one arm. Tell you what though, what she lacked in the arm department she more than made up in moxie. I miss that crazy one-armed hag.)
"But you started him"
Finally got around to watching "Borat", which I bought last week. And while it’s not quite as good as I thought it would be – I was expecting the cinematic equivalent that wondrous day when I met my now ex-wife for the first time – it’s fucking spectacular and pretty much everything you could ask for: quotable, short, obscene, and satirically racist/sexist/anti-Semitic/homophobic. So, perfect.
(The above quote comes from the deleted scene in which Borat is getting a message by an effeminate masseuse. Borat flips over and has an erection and asks the man if he will "finish him." When the man says no, Borat counters, "But you started him." You can bet that if I ever find myself in an adult situation again, I will be using this line. However, do not bet that I will find myself in an adult situation again. You might as well just burn your fucking money.)
(God, I’m so lonely.)
(Well, not really. But it’s fun to say that, and it scares the hell out of my mom.)
Zombie
It is now conceivable that I will never sleep more than six hours in a night again. As I wrote recently, every few weeks I’ll go through a stretch of mild insomnia that is brought on either by the weather, stress, or chlamydia (which is, by the way, not as curable as you might think). However, it usually "breaks" in the form of one night of near-death 12+ hour sleeping. I was hoping this would happen on Thursday night.
When I showed up at my buddy Joe and his fiancée Danielle’s apartment on that night, I was already pretty drunk (see above). Then Joe and I had a few beers before calling it a night around midnight. Joe and Dani have a beautiful apartment with a spare bedroom and bathroom that I destroy every time I visit them ("it looks like it was hit by a hair monsoon"). The bed in their spare bedroom is so comfortable it’s comparable to sleeping in the loving arms of Brooklyn Decker (and trust me – I know from experience). Joe and my other friends had to work a half-day on Friday, meaning I wouldn’t have to be up until after noon. The beers, the bed, the late wake-up – all elements for a night of dynamite sleeping and a potential break in my insomnia. I got ready for bed, took some Bayer to prevent a hangover, took some Xanax to help ease into sleepy land, and then went to bed just after midnight.
Then I woke up at 4am and couldn’t fall back asleep until 6am. Then I woke up at 7:30am and just lay there in bed, discovering myself (sorry Joe and Dani). Basically, no good sleep that night.
Or any night in Boston. The constant boozing didn’t help any, but I slept so poorly and so little up there that I really should be in a hospital right now. I’m sitting in my office feeling faint, having hot flashes, and feeling very emotional. I don’t know if I need a drink, a nap, or just someone to make out with. But since I’m not a doctor, all I can do is go home tonight, abuse some NyQuil, and pray that I get some solid sleep. Because this is just not good.
sports sports sports sports
What do you get when you take seven guys and put them in a 12×12 apartment with unlimited beers, a giant bag of pot, specialty Italian meats, cheeses and rolls brought up from Brooklyn, and twelve hours of college basketball? Besides a stopped up toilet and furniture that will smell of a delicate mix of burps, ass, and smoke for the rest of its life, you get My Idea of Heaven.
Even more than the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which is the main reason for my annual mid-March visit to Boston, the Friday of drinking/pot smoking/overeating/basketball watching is becoming my favorite. It was perfect this year, simple in its charms, just a bunch of dudes talking sports and women and life and drinking beers. The only way to improve on that would have been if the night had ended with a slow dance or a lovemaking session in the snow. Otherwise, perfect. Well, there was no carrot cake at my buddy Dave’s place, which bummed me out a bit, but I got over it.
Winter wonderland
On Tuesday, it was 65 degrees in Boston. So it is only fitting that on Friday night, a fairly large winter storm hit the city and dropped five inches of snow on the ground.
This is what we were greeted with when we finally left my buddy Dave’s apartment on Friday evening: snow, swirling and biting winds, and frigid New England air. Since we were in Southie, and since I was staying with Joe in Back Bay, that meant that he and I had to leave almost immediately after entering the bar if we wanted to make it back. Cabs in Boston are terrible (see below).
So Joe and I pulled an Irish exit, left without telling our friends, and headed out into the angry storm to try to hail a cab. Though when I’m in the shower and reaching for the shampoo I may look like a bear going after salmon, I do not do well in the cold weather. Since it’s Boston, we had to wait the minimum ten minutes for a cab, then added another ten on top of that because of the weather. At first, I limited my complaining to relevant annoyances, like "I’m cold!" and "It’s fucking freezing!" and "Don’t they have any fucking cabs in this fucking city!" before breaking down completely into a mess of shivers and sobs. And Joe and I made have had a fight a la Harry and Lloyd ("Your hands are freezing!").
So yeah, thanks again God, for the nice weather. Prick.
Worst Man
I was my buddy Steve’s best man last year in Jamaica, so being my buddy Joe’s best man next month does not phase me. However, Steve’s wedding was different, as it was held on a beach in the evening after everyone had been drinking pina coladas at the pool for nine hours. Hell, everyone was so drunk and happy that my only real best man responsibility was "Don’t let Steve kill anyone and/or drown." Mission accomplished, and I was hailed as a hero. It was awesome.
Joe’s wedding is more traditional – think less sunburned people and pina coladas and more tuxedos and gin drinks. This don’t concern me none, as I is what I is. But it certainly concerns Joe’s fiancée Danielle, a fact I learned only after walking out of the shower in only a towel and into their living room, saying, “Did you guys hear anything about a Sasquatch sighting? Something came over the CB about it. Have you guys seen a Sasquatch? Guys?”
Shortly after, Danielle and I (and Joe) had a “heart-to-heart” about my responsibilities as best man. Dani expressed concerned that since I’m “fun and awesome” (my words) or “kinda scary and creepy and how is there chest hair in the kitchen” (her words) I might, um, negatively impact the wedding. I can’t say I blame here her; I told my original best man speech to my buddy John, one of the groomsman in the wedding, and when I was done his critique was only one sentence: “Danielle will never speak to you again if you give that speech.” Word got back to Danielle and I guess that made her apprehensive.
But I think that after our talk, I allayed her fears. Of course, I spent the rest of the weekend bothering here:
Me: “Danielle, what’s the worst curse word I can say in the speech?”
Dani: [exasperated] “I don’t know, Jason…what word are you thinking of?”
Me: “Well, I have a nice line with the phrase ‘cockus maximus.’ Will that work?”
Dani: [walking away]
Me: “If it’s any consolation, I don’t say it about Joe. I use it in a story about a horse I had growing up.”
Dani: [closes door to bedroom]
Long line of lines
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Boston has nothing on New York City when it comes to nightlife. In Boston, even the shittiest bars have lines, the bouncers are supreme assholes, and the bars are packed with Massholes who would love nothing more than to start a fight with you. Ugh. I don’t think I’ve ever waited in a line for a bar in NYC and have been close to fighting maybe three times in six years. Every time I go to Boston there is some line involved and a fight is a very real possibility.
Nice place to visit, but I could never live there. You guys keep the long lines, the Massholes, the sprawl, and the 1:30am last call – I’ll stick to going to any bar I want at 1am, getting there conveniently, and drinking my face off until 4am (and getting pizza, of course).
I don’t know, cabs maybe?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the cab situation in Boston is infuriating. Another comparison: I can walk out of my apartment and find a cab in under thirty seconds. Hell, I can walk out of any bar in Manhattan and find a cab in under a minute.
In Boston, forget it. I’m so disgusted by this that I can’t even write about it, since my doctor has said that I need to decrease stress in my life. Suffice it to say that it’s very difficult to get a cab in Boston anytime, but especially after 1:30am. And, oh yeah, it’s really cold there.
[Deep breaths…]
Drunken hotel stays
You know when you know you’ve probably had too much to drink? When you’re at the bar with your friends, you come out of the bathroom and see they’re not there, and instead of looking for them in, say, another part of the bar, you assumed they’ve left you and you leave the bar. Then you get fired up and call and text the hell out of them. Then you try to flag a cab down, but you can’t, since it’s Boston. Then you get so frustrated that you see a Marriott and say to yourself, “Fuck it all to hell – I’m staying there tonight.” So you check in to the hotel and drop $240 (!) on a room (and you know if the man behind the counter had said “$900”, you still would have paid it). Then you settle into the room, curse as you get ready for bed, and your cell phone rings. Turns out it’s your buddy you’re staying with, asking where the hell you are, saying that he and your friends went to the downstairs part of the bar and are still there. Then you scream aloud a made-up curse word, hang up the phone, and fall asleep in that hotel room thinking of all the better ways you could have spent $240.
That’s when you know you’ve had too much to drink.
[I realize that’s only nine thoughts about the weekend, but I’m too disgusted with myself to keep going. Overall, fun weekend.]
[But if you guys want to send some donations, they would be most appreciated. I’m pretty sure my check to the cable company is now going to bounce and a new “First 48” is on this week. So there's that.]
This what the weekend in Boston did to me. Because my mind is too scattershot to form anything coherent (you know, ’cause I’m usually very coherent), ten random thoughts on the weekend.
Train ride drinking
As I mentioned Friday, getting drunk on a train is VERY underrated. I got the 7pm Acela on Thursday night and after decompressing for an hour, I headed over the cafe car to get two cans of Bud and fired up the new laptop to watch "Borat."
I’ve always thought that drinking in a moving vehicle is fun, possibly because it’s rare and (most of the time) illegal. But the spirit must have moved me on Thursday night, because I really crushed beers on that train ride. Each time I went up I bought two at once and had eight beers on the ride, having a grand old time, watching "Borat", listening to music, and throwing an amazing one-man party on the train. The car vs. train vs. Limoliner vs. flight debate just got a whole lot more interesting, as I had never before taken such advantage of the $4 cans of Bud in the cafe car. When I have to go to Boston again next week, en route to my buddy Joe’s bachelor party, I know how I’m getting there.
(Next week’s train movie: Tombstone. I just hope that if anyone sits next to me, they won’t be uncomfortable with my constant quoting and the inevitable tear up when Morgan dies and when Virgil says, "Don’t worry, Allie girl – I still got one good arm to hold you with." Gets me every time, probably because I once dated a girl with one arm. Tell you what though, what she lacked in the arm department she more than made up in moxie. I miss that crazy one-armed hag.)
"But you started him"
Finally got around to watching "Borat", which I bought last week. And while it’s not quite as good as I thought it would be – I was expecting the cinematic equivalent that wondrous day when I met my now ex-wife for the first time – it’s fucking spectacular and pretty much everything you could ask for: quotable, short, obscene, and satirically racist/sexist/anti-Semitic/homophobic. So, perfect.
(The above quote comes from the deleted scene in which Borat is getting a message by an effeminate masseuse. Borat flips over and has an erection and asks the man if he will "finish him." When the man says no, Borat counters, "But you started him." You can bet that if I ever find myself in an adult situation again, I will be using this line. However, do not bet that I will find myself in an adult situation again. You might as well just burn your fucking money.)
(God, I’m so lonely.)
(Well, not really. But it’s fun to say that, and it scares the hell out of my mom.)
Zombie
It is now conceivable that I will never sleep more than six hours in a night again. As I wrote recently, every few weeks I’ll go through a stretch of mild insomnia that is brought on either by the weather, stress, or chlamydia (which is, by the way, not as curable as you might think). However, it usually "breaks" in the form of one night of near-death 12+ hour sleeping. I was hoping this would happen on Thursday night.
When I showed up at my buddy Joe and his fiancée Danielle’s apartment on that night, I was already pretty drunk (see above). Then Joe and I had a few beers before calling it a night around midnight. Joe and Dani have a beautiful apartment with a spare bedroom and bathroom that I destroy every time I visit them ("it looks like it was hit by a hair monsoon"). The bed in their spare bedroom is so comfortable it’s comparable to sleeping in the loving arms of Brooklyn Decker (and trust me – I know from experience). Joe and my other friends had to work a half-day on Friday, meaning I wouldn’t have to be up until after noon. The beers, the bed, the late wake-up – all elements for a night of dynamite sleeping and a potential break in my insomnia. I got ready for bed, took some Bayer to prevent a hangover, took some Xanax to help ease into sleepy land, and then went to bed just after midnight.
Then I woke up at 4am and couldn’t fall back asleep until 6am. Then I woke up at 7:30am and just lay there in bed, discovering myself (sorry Joe and Dani). Basically, no good sleep that night.
Or any night in Boston. The constant boozing didn’t help any, but I slept so poorly and so little up there that I really should be in a hospital right now. I’m sitting in my office feeling faint, having hot flashes, and feeling very emotional. I don’t know if I need a drink, a nap, or just someone to make out with. But since I’m not a doctor, all I can do is go home tonight, abuse some NyQuil, and pray that I get some solid sleep. Because this is just not good.
sports sports sports sports
What do you get when you take seven guys and put them in a 12×12 apartment with unlimited beers, a giant bag of pot, specialty Italian meats, cheeses and rolls brought up from Brooklyn, and twelve hours of college basketball? Besides a stopped up toilet and furniture that will smell of a delicate mix of burps, ass, and smoke for the rest of its life, you get My Idea of Heaven.
Even more than the St. Patrick’s Day parade, which is the main reason for my annual mid-March visit to Boston, the Friday of drinking/pot smoking/overeating/basketball watching is becoming my favorite. It was perfect this year, simple in its charms, just a bunch of dudes talking sports and women and life and drinking beers. The only way to improve on that would have been if the night had ended with a slow dance or a lovemaking session in the snow. Otherwise, perfect. Well, there was no carrot cake at my buddy Dave’s place, which bummed me out a bit, but I got over it.
Winter wonderland
On Tuesday, it was 65 degrees in Boston. So it is only fitting that on Friday night, a fairly large winter storm hit the city and dropped five inches of snow on the ground.
This is what we were greeted with when we finally left my buddy Dave’s apartment on Friday evening: snow, swirling and biting winds, and frigid New England air. Since we were in Southie, and since I was staying with Joe in Back Bay, that meant that he and I had to leave almost immediately after entering the bar if we wanted to make it back. Cabs in Boston are terrible (see below).
So Joe and I pulled an Irish exit, left without telling our friends, and headed out into the angry storm to try to hail a cab. Though when I’m in the shower and reaching for the shampoo I may look like a bear going after salmon, I do not do well in the cold weather. Since it’s Boston, we had to wait the minimum ten minutes for a cab, then added another ten on top of that because of the weather. At first, I limited my complaining to relevant annoyances, like "I’m cold!" and "It’s fucking freezing!" and "Don’t they have any fucking cabs in this fucking city!" before breaking down completely into a mess of shivers and sobs. And Joe and I made have had a fight a la Harry and Lloyd ("Your hands are freezing!").
So yeah, thanks again God, for the nice weather. Prick.
Worst Man
I was my buddy Steve’s best man last year in Jamaica, so being my buddy Joe’s best man next month does not phase me. However, Steve’s wedding was different, as it was held on a beach in the evening after everyone had been drinking pina coladas at the pool for nine hours. Hell, everyone was so drunk and happy that my only real best man responsibility was "Don’t let Steve kill anyone and/or drown." Mission accomplished, and I was hailed as a hero. It was awesome.
Joe’s wedding is more traditional – think less sunburned people and pina coladas and more tuxedos and gin drinks. This don’t concern me none, as I is what I is. But it certainly concerns Joe’s fiancée Danielle, a fact I learned only after walking out of the shower in only a towel and into their living room, saying, “Did you guys hear anything about a Sasquatch sighting? Something came over the CB about it. Have you guys seen a Sasquatch? Guys?”
Shortly after, Danielle and I (and Joe) had a “heart-to-heart” about my responsibilities as best man. Dani expressed concerned that since I’m “fun and awesome” (my words) or “kinda scary and creepy and how is there chest hair in the kitchen” (her words) I might, um, negatively impact the wedding. I can’t say I blame here her; I told my original best man speech to my buddy John, one of the groomsman in the wedding, and when I was done his critique was only one sentence: “Danielle will never speak to you again if you give that speech.” Word got back to Danielle and I guess that made her apprehensive.
But I think that after our talk, I allayed her fears. Of course, I spent the rest of the weekend bothering here:
Me: “Danielle, what’s the worst curse word I can say in the speech?”
Dani: [exasperated] “I don’t know, Jason…what word are you thinking of?”
Me: “Well, I have a nice line with the phrase ‘cockus maximus.’ Will that work?”
Dani: [walking away]
Me: “If it’s any consolation, I don’t say it about Joe. I use it in a story about a horse I had growing up.”
Dani: [closes door to bedroom]
Long line of lines
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Boston has nothing on New York City when it comes to nightlife. In Boston, even the shittiest bars have lines, the bouncers are supreme assholes, and the bars are packed with Massholes who would love nothing more than to start a fight with you. Ugh. I don’t think I’ve ever waited in a line for a bar in NYC and have been close to fighting maybe three times in six years. Every time I go to Boston there is some line involved and a fight is a very real possibility.
Nice place to visit, but I could never live there. You guys keep the long lines, the Massholes, the sprawl, and the 1:30am last call – I’ll stick to going to any bar I want at 1am, getting there conveniently, and drinking my face off until 4am (and getting pizza, of course).
I don’t know, cabs maybe?
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the cab situation in Boston is infuriating. Another comparison: I can walk out of my apartment and find a cab in under thirty seconds. Hell, I can walk out of any bar in Manhattan and find a cab in under a minute.
In Boston, forget it. I’m so disgusted by this that I can’t even write about it, since my doctor has said that I need to decrease stress in my life. Suffice it to say that it’s very difficult to get a cab in Boston anytime, but especially after 1:30am. And, oh yeah, it’s really cold there.
[Deep breaths…]
Drunken hotel stays
You know when you know you’ve probably had too much to drink? When you’re at the bar with your friends, you come out of the bathroom and see they’re not there, and instead of looking for them in, say, another part of the bar, you assumed they’ve left you and you leave the bar. Then you get fired up and call and text the hell out of them. Then you try to flag a cab down, but you can’t, since it’s Boston. Then you get so frustrated that you see a Marriott and say to yourself, “Fuck it all to hell – I’m staying there tonight.” So you check in to the hotel and drop $240 (!) on a room (and you know if the man behind the counter had said “$900”, you still would have paid it). Then you settle into the room, curse as you get ready for bed, and your cell phone rings. Turns out it’s your buddy you’re staying with, asking where the hell you are, saying that he and your friends went to the downstairs part of the bar and are still there. Then you scream aloud a made-up curse word, hang up the phone, and fall asleep in that hotel room thinking of all the better ways you could have spent $240.
That’s when you know you’ve had too much to drink.
[I realize that’s only nine thoughts about the weekend, but I’m too disgusted with myself to keep going. Overall, fun weekend.]
[But if you guys want to send some donations, they would be most appreciated. I’m pretty sure my check to the cable company is now going to bounce and a new “First 48” is on this week. So there's that.]
